This was written by an, ahem, very close friend of mine.
Anyone here care to share their own, er, I mean, a friend's tale...?
Leighton
I'll begin. Let me start by saying that I fully recognize the gross negligence of my actions, and should (and most certainly do) thank my lucky stars that no one was hurt. It was a valuable lesson, and now years later, confess I still do feel awful about it, although these days I am a bit more prone to snicker about it --but only because I was very lucky. It could have ended tragically. So, I'm not looking for a lesson in handgun safety. I've donned my lava suit and freely admit my stupidity, so please, save the hatred, but after thinking about another post, thought I'd share this and see if anyone else has a story they're willing to tell.
It was my first revolver, a S&W stainless M 66 in .357 mag. I loved it, and took it to the range and elsewhere to shoot as often as I could. One day, I had trouble hitting the target. This was unusual, as I had become confortable with it, and usually shot it fairly well. Problem was that this day I was shooting low and left, consistently. Anyway, displeased, I went home and had it nagging at me. I don't recall anymore if I spoke on the phone with a shooting bud or read about it on the web, but I got it into my head that it was not a problem of mechanical nature, but rather that it was something in my technique that had changed.
So, after dinner (I was living with my then girlfriend at the time, who was of Mexican descent and a newly minted attorney) I began thinking that I'd spend some time dry-firing it to see if I was pulling the shot, both SA and DA. Naturally, I checked very carefully to ensure that it was empty, and proceeded to dry-fire away at a stain on a brick in the heavy fireplace we had in the LR. Having been unable to determine if that was the problem, I continued for about a half hour, controlling my breathing and paying close attention to my squeeze, stance, etc. Still, I could find nothing definitive about my technique that would readily explain the problem, and began getting a bit frustrated. I ended up putting the revolver away and flipping on the tube.
At some point (probably during a commercial), I began obsessing again about my shooting, so back out comes the thing, and after another careful unload and inspection, I'm off to the races again. This went on and on, but to try to facilitate my analysis of the problem, decided I needed a more specific target to concentrate on. Coincidentally, one of my GF's favorite possessions was conveniently displayed in the fireplace...It was a very old, very intricately hand-carved wax ballet dancer type thing, weighing maybe 5-7 pounds. As it was late and she was already upstairs in bed, I figured there'd be no harm in aiming at this thing the dancer had around her chest, some sort of small, one inch medallion on a small chain.
Long story shorter, at some point I got sleepy and decided to head back up to bed, and loaded up the thing, as it was at the time my bedroom persuader (for intruders, not the GF ) . I then went to get a drink of water or somesuch, and sat back down on the couch to smoke a last butt before retiring.
Well, what did I do then before walking upstairs but pick the old girl one last time to run just a dozen more practice dry-fires through her, as she was sitting there next to the holster, all safe and unloaded. I checked. Didn't I?
I took careful aim, and proceeded to carefullly pull the trig...BAM! I about had a heart attack, and with a sickening realization remembered that I had just reloaded the thing before getting my drink of water.
The girl came down the stairs screaming, only to find me and the living room covered in a greasy white wax. Her precious heirloom was gone from the mid-chest up, and there I stood, murder weapon in hand. After receiving a tongue lashing to make a lesser man cry (and rightly so) I told her to go back upstairs, and told her that I'd clean up (at this point she hadn't yet figured out that I'd assasinated her favorite childhood doll--that initial tirade was kids' stuff compared to what I got later). Anyway, the round had gone right through the dancer's medallion, and hit a brick flush, but not before splattering the dancer's anatomy *everywhere*, including in my hair. I found the 158 grain semi wadcutter sitting in the fireplace, the grooves filled with wax, looking just like it was ready to be loaded, a few minutes later.
I still have that bullet as a testament to my own stupidity and negligence. Thank Heaven to Mergatroid that I observed at least one 'safety' measure, and hadn't chosen a spot on the wall/sheetrock instead, as I was living in a densely populated area of the city then.
So, anybody else feel like sharing? I *know* I'm not the only one here who has displayed a great knack for doing something horribly dumb and potentially dangerous, and got lucky.
Anyway 'twere a lesson I'll keep with me always, if nothing else! I don't do any dryfiring indoors anymore. Ever.
Anyone here care to share their own, er, I mean, a friend's tale...?
Leighton
I'll begin. Let me start by saying that I fully recognize the gross negligence of my actions, and should (and most certainly do) thank my lucky stars that no one was hurt. It was a valuable lesson, and now years later, confess I still do feel awful about it, although these days I am a bit more prone to snicker about it --but only because I was very lucky. It could have ended tragically. So, I'm not looking for a lesson in handgun safety. I've donned my lava suit and freely admit my stupidity, so please, save the hatred, but after thinking about another post, thought I'd share this and see if anyone else has a story they're willing to tell.
It was my first revolver, a S&W stainless M 66 in .357 mag. I loved it, and took it to the range and elsewhere to shoot as often as I could. One day, I had trouble hitting the target. This was unusual, as I had become confortable with it, and usually shot it fairly well. Problem was that this day I was shooting low and left, consistently. Anyway, displeased, I went home and had it nagging at me. I don't recall anymore if I spoke on the phone with a shooting bud or read about it on the web, but I got it into my head that it was not a problem of mechanical nature, but rather that it was something in my technique that had changed.
So, after dinner (I was living with my then girlfriend at the time, who was of Mexican descent and a newly minted attorney) I began thinking that I'd spend some time dry-firing it to see if I was pulling the shot, both SA and DA. Naturally, I checked very carefully to ensure that it was empty, and proceeded to dry-fire away at a stain on a brick in the heavy fireplace we had in the LR. Having been unable to determine if that was the problem, I continued for about a half hour, controlling my breathing and paying close attention to my squeeze, stance, etc. Still, I could find nothing definitive about my technique that would readily explain the problem, and began getting a bit frustrated. I ended up putting the revolver away and flipping on the tube.
At some point (probably during a commercial), I began obsessing again about my shooting, so back out comes the thing, and after another careful unload and inspection, I'm off to the races again. This went on and on, but to try to facilitate my analysis of the problem, decided I needed a more specific target to concentrate on. Coincidentally, one of my GF's favorite possessions was conveniently displayed in the fireplace...It was a very old, very intricately hand-carved wax ballet dancer type thing, weighing maybe 5-7 pounds. As it was late and she was already upstairs in bed, I figured there'd be no harm in aiming at this thing the dancer had around her chest, some sort of small, one inch medallion on a small chain.
Long story shorter, at some point I got sleepy and decided to head back up to bed, and loaded up the thing, as it was at the time my bedroom persuader (for intruders, not the GF ) . I then went to get a drink of water or somesuch, and sat back down on the couch to smoke a last butt before retiring.
Well, what did I do then before walking upstairs but pick the old girl one last time to run just a dozen more practice dry-fires through her, as she was sitting there next to the holster, all safe and unloaded. I checked. Didn't I?
I took careful aim, and proceeded to carefullly pull the trig...BAM! I about had a heart attack, and with a sickening realization remembered that I had just reloaded the thing before getting my drink of water.
The girl came down the stairs screaming, only to find me and the living room covered in a greasy white wax. Her precious heirloom was gone from the mid-chest up, and there I stood, murder weapon in hand. After receiving a tongue lashing to make a lesser man cry (and rightly so) I told her to go back upstairs, and told her that I'd clean up (at this point she hadn't yet figured out that I'd assasinated her favorite childhood doll--that initial tirade was kids' stuff compared to what I got later). Anyway, the round had gone right through the dancer's medallion, and hit a brick flush, but not before splattering the dancer's anatomy *everywhere*, including in my hair. I found the 158 grain semi wadcutter sitting in the fireplace, the grooves filled with wax, looking just like it was ready to be loaded, a few minutes later.
I still have that bullet as a testament to my own stupidity and negligence. Thank Heaven to Mergatroid that I observed at least one 'safety' measure, and hadn't chosen a spot on the wall/sheetrock instead, as I was living in a densely populated area of the city then.
So, anybody else feel like sharing? I *know* I'm not the only one here who has displayed a great knack for doing something horribly dumb and potentially dangerous, and got lucky.
Anyway 'twere a lesson I'll keep with me always, if nothing else! I don't do any dryfiring indoors anymore. Ever.